Scars
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: Diaval accidentally spies Maleficent in the water hole and takes note of her scars. Format has been corrected. Day six of Maleval week. Prompt: Scars, playing with children. One-shot.


**A/N: Well, I woke up this morning to several reviews reporting that this story had been uploaded in HTML coding. I find that extremely strange because I don't even know how to use HTML coding. XD But anyway, here it is again, hopefully in normal text. **

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He hadn't meant to see her in the water hole. It really, really was a legitimate accident. He was a _bird_, after all, and he didn't know that, "_I'm going to the water hole_," connoted, "_I'm taking a bath while naked and you aren't to follow me or look at me_." He should have known better. But he didn't know better, and all he could do was stare at the burnt feathery stumps that protruded from her back. He knew he should turn and leave before she noticed him. But it was too late. "Diaval, you can stop staring now."

His mouth went dry. He was in _so_ much trouble. Gods, she was going to _kill_ him. He deserved it. Since when was he such an _idiot?_ He turned his back to her and bent his head to his chest, clenching his eyes closed. "Yes, mistress," he managed to choke out. The sound of tinkling water met his ears, and he knew that she was coming toward him. Rustling cloth; she was dressing. Then silence of bated breath between both of them. He could feel her gaze boring into his back. Should he turn to face her? He wasn't sure. But it was her job to stand with her back to him. She was always the one that closed him out. So he turned.

Her face was sad, wistful. Almost vulnerable, but not quite. And slightly, ever so slightly, fearful. He took a small step backward. There were no words for him to provide—nothing could ever possibly combat the agony of having once flown but being unable to fly again. His arms didn't know what to do with themselves. Humans offered hugs for comfort. They opened a bit, but fell closed again. His mistress despised being touched by anything. They fell useless at his sides, fingers quaking in the slightest.

He was surprised when she stepped closer to him, closer, closer, almost closing the space between their bodies so that her emeralds bore into his onyxes. He could feel the warmth of her body. He could smell the remnants of the soap in her hair. Her emerald eyes drifted closed. And then he felt it. He understood. She—by gods—she trusted him. He, a simple raven, nothing but a mere crow, had earned the trust of his broken mistress. Arms opened again and closed around the small of her back. Hers looped around his neck in turn. Eyelashes brushed skin.

There were so many things he could say, things he wanted to say, but he restrained himself. Her nearness kept him from speaking. If he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, at this moment, he would ruin her forever. She was as raw and open as she had ever been around him. Her face pressed into the crook of his neck, and he felt wetness there. He grated his teeth against sudden rage that burbled within him. Ravens were keen animals. And they were very, very dedicated to those they cared for. He wasn't sure of the emotion the humans called love—it seemed very complex for a raven's simple heart—but if he knew it, it was for his mistress. And for this rage, this love, he would kill. He vowed to be the one to pluck the king's eyes from his skull, to be the one to make him eat his eyeballs once the optic nerve was severed.

Then again, that wasn't quite right. He wouldn't be the one to kill the king. He hadn't earned that right. But he knew with absolute certainty that he would be right by her side as she killed him. He would pin him down and snarl in his ear and watch as the blood poured out of him, and he would draw such satisfaction from it that later he would fear himself a monster.

He decided he _was_ sure of the emotion the humans called love. Only such a thing could lead to such anger and fondness at the same time. And he bore the emotion known as love to his mistress, who had given him a heart to feel this thing known as love. A soft kiss pressed to her hair. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He let his head rest against hers, and they rocked back and forth in soft synchronization. He hoped that one day, one day, in the distant future, she might believe that she loved him, too.


End file.
